Vacant Lives Rewrite
by CelticFaerie2
Summary: AU, mild spoilers for 2x2 Autopsy. Wilson goes home to an empty house. HouseWilson hurtcomfort angst fic. Please read and review. Ch 8 now up. Can you say House!Angst? And a side of Stacy, with a little flashback for flavor.
1. Chapter 1

The house was dark, silent, empty when he pulled into the drive. No lights, no dog barking, no flickering of the television in a darkened room. He surveyed the yard, but everything seemed in place. Key in the lock, opening the door. The alarm was activated, and yet there was no dog to greet him.

Something was wrong. Very wrong. He could feel it, deep in his bones. It was the same feeling as when he'd taken Andie's file to House. He just i knew /i something was…off. Knew it in his heart, in his soul, in the empty void where his love for Julie lived.

He shut off the alarm, only vaguely aware his fingers were trembling. He took a deep breath, called for the dog. Nothing. But he didn't expect it. The dog was gone, that was obvious. Julie was gone, that was painfully obvious.

i Maybe she took him to the vet, /i he sighed. He knew that wasn't the case. She'd left, and she took the damn dog, his dog, with her. With a deep breath and strong resolve, he searched for a note. Nothing on the fridge, nothing on the table, by the phone, taped to the computer in his office.

He trudged up the stairs, his own heavy steps sounding like a clumsy elephant, sound echoing off the walls. There it was. On his pillow. An envelope. His name, her beautiful, meticulous handwriting. The complete opposite of his careless doctor's chicken scratch writing.

His palms were sweating, his hands shaking as he lifted the flap. Tucked, not sealed. How considerate. She knew he was prone to paper cuts.

He sat on the bed, noting without humor how the mattress sagged under his weight. She'd mentioned maybe getting a new mattress. They hadn't gotten around to it. More specifically, i he /i hadn't gotten around to it.

Before he unfolded the delicate paper, his eyes scanned the room. Everything seemed to be in place. Except the picture of her mother was missing from the table on her side of the bed. Didn't matter. He knew what the note said.

He ran a finger along the folds, as if that would make a difference. As if that simple act would lessen the blow. He took a deep breath, wet his lips with his tongue. His eyes glanced at the carefully written words, scanned the pattern of her hand, beautiful, perfect, flawless.

i My Dearest James,

I have given this a lot of thought. I don't want you to think I've made a rash decision. I have thought long and hard, I have considered all the angles.

You know as well as I, the magic died for us a long time ago. I love you, James, but I am not in love with you. Nor are you in love with me. Your work comes first, I have never been in doubt about that. You are a brilliant doctor, and you have touched millions of lives. Throughout our marriage, I have tried to respect that. I do respect it. I respect you, as a doctor.

If only you could have been half as dedicated to your marriage. I don't blame you, James. I know you have a lot going on outside this house. I'm sorry.

There's leftover Chinese in the fridge. I'll be in touch. Julie. /i 

He sat for a long time, still as a statue, cold as marble, staring at her words. i 'I have thought hard, I have considered all the angles' /i A thousand thoughts rolled through his mind, a million things he could have done differently over the years, during the past week, two weeks. He'd seen all the signs, the way she looked away when he stepped into the room, the way her back stiffened when he kissed her, the way she smelled of some new, delicate flowered perfume.

The way he'd stayed late at the hospital when he didn't have to, pouring over paperwork late into the night when it could keep till morning. The way he met Greg for dinner in the cafeteria instead of going home. The way his heart failed to flutter, even a little bit, at the sight of her. The way his eyes watched the new afternoon-shift nurse walk past his office.

The way he invented reasons to swing by Accounting to talk to Debbie. Or Greg in Diagnostics. He smiled a small smile, thinking of Greg, but quickly sobered and shuddered and reached up to rub the tendons at the back of his neck.

The reality of it was devastating. Mind boggling, soul crushing, spirit drenching. He'd known it was happening, had felt the gaping hole split wide between their feet each day, every night. He'd nearly welcomed it, until now. Until he held the proof of her unhappiness in his trembling hands. Until he looked around, and realized he was alone. Not even the dog had stayed. He wondered if Julie gave the mutt the choice, or just ushered him into the car and sped away.

The paper fell to the floor. His foot sought to hide it, obliterate it, crush it into nonexistence. It was still here, unchanged except a new crease in the corner and the grey imprint of his shoe imbedded in the milky whiteness of its skin.

There was only one thing to do.

"It's your dime," Greg House barked into the phone. It took three tries to get the number right, and as soon as he heard House on the other end of the line, he wondered why he didn't use speed dial. One touch dialing, it would have been so much easier.

James Wilson took a deep breath. He had to be cool, casual, composed. House would know in a millisecond something was wrong. As if he didn't know already. House was a lot of things, but House wasn't stupid. Wilson's left hand danced around his neck. "Busy?"

"You know The O.C. is on tonight," House answered, voice still slightly nasal from his cold. Right. House was sick. Wilson's mind flashed on the image of him sitting at his desk, chopping his Diphenhydramine. He'd honestly thought it was cocaine for a moment, and it didn't surprise him.

Thinking back, he'd had little reaction at all. House's admission, 'I know my way around a razor blade' spun through his mind. That meant something. Something Wilson should have paid attention to.

Wilson nodded, his head in his hands, shoulder holding the phone to his ear. Should have used the speakerphone. Didn't have the inclination to switch over now. "First round's on me."

The line was silent, and Wilson felt his stomach churn.

House knew. He could hear the wheels of realization spinning in his head. Not that it was a secret, House had predicted this a long time ago. He also knew House wouldn't make him say anything over the phone.

"I'll swing by and pick you up. Be ready in half an hour. Maybe I'll even let you drive." There was an unmistakable note of amusement to House's voice.

Wilson opened his mouth to say something, something like 'thanks' or 'no thanks, I'll

drive myself,' but no words came out, and the line went dead. Wilson's tongue darted out to offer precious moisture to his lips once more as he flipped his cell phone shut.

Half an hour. That didn't give him much time to break down and pull himself back together. He should have waited to call House. He needed to break down. Before he got stone cold drunk, drunk enough to forget.

He paced, reached the farthest wall of his room for the fourth time, and unleashed his fury on the unsuspecting wall. He didn't stop until his knuckles were bleeding, and in need of cleaning. He tipped forward, using the wall to brace himself, only it didn't quite work out the way he'd hoped, and he started to slide down.

He ended up on his knees, face mashed against the wall, hot tears on his cheeks. It wasn't that Julie left. No. He'd been expecting that. He'd been almost hoping for it. Hoping she would leave him before he walked out. The divorce settlement would be a lot easier on his wallet if she was the one who walked. It was the failure, the end of yet another marriage that tore him down to the foundation. Third time was supposed to be a charm.

Wilson reared back and flung his head forward, smacking his temple against the wall.

That's precisely when a pair of headlights pulling into the drive illuminated the room. Greg House had impeccable timing.


	2. Chapter 2

House let himself in with the key Wilson had given him years ago, a key he rarely used unless Wilson was out of town on a conference and House dropped by to water the plants because Julie had gone to her mother's, rather than stay in the oversized house by herself. "James?" he called, checking in all the rooms downstairs before venturing to the stairs. He didn't often use Wilson's given name, and in truth it felt weird on his tongue and hung in the air around him after he said it.

He looked up, hopeful Wilson would appear at the crest of the stairs so he wouldn't have to trek up there. Stairs were difficult for him to navigate with a leg that refused to cooperate, and his cane was essentially useless. "Wilson!" he hollered, right foot resting on the first step, muscles clenching in anticipation of the difficult journey if he had to go up.

He rocked back on his left foot, and hooked his cane on the railing. The master bedroom, where he expected to find Wilson, was at the top of the stairs. He could do with out the cane once he got up there. He fished his prescription bottle out of his pocket, uncapped it easily with one hand and shook a Vicodin into his palm. He tossed the pill back, swallowing it easily without water.

His right hand gripped the railing to counter his weight as he pulled himself up. Stabbing pain sliced through his right thigh. Not a pleasant feeling. He could literally feel the compromised muscle and nerves tightening. He paused, looked up. If he wasn't worried Wilson had done something stupid up there, he wouldn't have forced himself to make the climb. But the fact Wilson hadn't answered him just wasn't a good sign.

"James!" he called again, sweat beading his forehead at the thought of another step, though he pushed forward and up without hesitation. He'd heard the hesitation in Wilson's voice, loud and clear over the phone line. Arriving at the house, he had his suspicions confirmed. Julie was gone. Though he hadn't foreseen that she'd take the dog with her. That was just cruel.

"I'm here," James appeared at the bedroom door, then the top of the stairs. His hand looked to be wrapped in a towel, and he smiled apologetically. "I was in the bathroom."

House closed his eyes for a moment. Great. Turning around to go back down seemed almost more daunting than going up. The steps didn't give him much room to navigate, and there was no way to do it without setting his weight on his right foot. A mere second was all it took, and he had to maintain a firm grip on the railing to keep himself upright.

He retrieved his cane, and allowed his shoulder to bear the brunt of his weight again once that he was on level ground. Wilson waited until he cleared the stairs before charging down to the main floor.

"What happened to your hand?" House asked with a quick glance.

"You should see the wall," Wilson answered, and pulled the towel off. .

House clicked his tongue. "Pretty."

"I thought so too."

"Want me to wrap it for you?"

"Nah. Once I start drinking I won't even feel it."

The horrific stench of sweat and stale beer assaulted his nose before he was even out of the car. That wasn't good. "What is this place?" he muttered, not really expecting an answer.

Wilson was out of the car, and leaned against the door waiting for House to pull himself up to his feet. "Friend of a patient," he explained with a wave of his hand. "I wanted somewhere different."

"You just want to make sure you won't run into anyone from the hospital." House clarified, and Wilson's silence confirmed the suggestion.

A few minutes later, they sat facing each other across a table and a bottle of beer. House was pretty sure the tap would be watered down, better to stick with the bottle, even if it was more expensive.

The crowd was moderate, but it was still early. Wilson assured him the place would be packed within the hour. Great, just what House was looking for. Bonding with a bunch of thick necked drunks.

House listened to his friend ramble, accentuating the conversation with an occasional grunt or click of his tongue. Wilson swiftly avoided the real issue, which was fine with House. He'd lend Wilson all the support he could manage, but discussing the truth of his wife leaving wasn't within Greg House's comfort zone.

House had seen Wilson through two failed marriages, had seen the third going south much the same as the other two. He'd rarely tried to talk about it with James, though. Failed relationships were a touchy spot with him.

"I bought a motorcycle." House said over the lip of his bottle.

Wilson nearly choked on his beer. "You…what?" His brown eyes blinked rapidly.

"Motorcycle. Two wheels, helmet…"

"I know what a motorcycle is. Why would you…"

House shrugged. "I miss it." The freedom, the wind in his face, all that stereo typical crap about riding a bike. He remembered it well. He hadn't felt that alive in a long time.

"Your leg…"

Another shrug. What Wilson had said about Andie enjoying life more than him hit home. Riding was one of the things he missed, one of the few things stolen from him five years earlier that he could reclaim. "What they say about you never forget how to ride, it's true. A few minor adjustments, lean to the left, it's fine."

"You're an idiot, House," Wilson stated, but with a smile. "I need a piss," he announced suddenly and hitched his jeans for effect as he stood. He'd consumed three beers, House figured it to be enough to get a buzz going, but his eyes were still far too focused. He'd need a few more before he forgot why he was drinking.

House nodded. He'd just as soon stay in his chair until the need to urinate was too strong to ignore. Something about hobbling through a bar full of men thick as California Redwoods didn't exactly appeal to him.

He scanned the dimly lit room. A couple of pool tables lay nestled in a somewhat brighter corner, decorated with NASCAR and beer advertisements. House hadn't played pool for…five years, at least. Not exactly easy to line up shots when one leg was compromised.

House glanced at his watch. 7:42. He sighed. He'd finished his beer. His first, even though Wilson had drank three. House looked at the empty bottles, as if hoping one would have a little left in it, but Wilson wasn't that careless. He shot a glance around the room, the only waitress he'd seen all night was cozying up to a couple burly guys on the far side of the bar.

So. It was either sit on his ass and wait for Wilson, or get up and limp over to the bar. He wasn't thrilled with either option.

His watch displayed 7:47. Only five minutes since he'd last looked. Where the hell was Wilson? House looked up toward the bathrooms. A neon sign hung on the wall, pointing the way, and underneath it, a man wiping his hands on his jeans.

The man in question peaked House's interest, though he couldn't say why. With a nod to the bartender, the guy sauntered out the door. Two thuggish looking guys followed, which really peaked House's interest. He caught a glimpse of red smeared on a shirt. Looked suspiciously like blood.

House watched them go out the door. Something didn't sit right. Something was wrong. Very wrong. House scratched his neck, details rolling through his mind.

House glanced around the bar once more, this time to make sure no one was paying him any attention. He wasn't due for another Vicodin yet, especially since he'd taken an extra one in preparation for the stairs at Wilson's place., but sitting on the hard chair made his hip hurt, and the leg ached. He sighed deeply, and patted his pocket to make his pills rattle. Sometimes just knowing they were there was a comfort.

With a grunt, House got to his feet, using the table for extra support. He grabbed his cane, and headed for the bathroom.


	3. Chapter 3

The hallway was narrow and dark, and the closeness of the walls made House feel off balance somehow. A trio of barely-dressed women giggled their way out of the bathroom. Arm in arm, they took up the entire width of the hallway, forcing House to step aside next to the payphone.

Moving out of the corner, his cane slipped, and he was grateful for the phone box because it gave him something to catch himself on. He looked down to see a bloody footprint. The trail led from the men's room.

"Fuck. Wilson!" He gripped his cane harder than was strictly necessary. He wasn't even aware of the pain as he took the few steps to the bathroom door. He used the cane to kick the door open, and his teeth cut into his bottom lip to stifle a cry of rage at the sight he saw.

James, on his back, bleeding from his mouth, blood on his thigh, under his back. His eyes were closed, his mouth slack, head lolled to one side. It didn't look good, but even from the doorway, before he could navigate his crippled body into the small room, he could see that James was breathing. Not deeply, but enough to push air.

"Son of a bitch! I need some help in here!" he yelled, and wrenched his cane under the door, effectively holding it open. The hallway leading to the bathrooms was suddenly vacant. House eased himself to his knees beside James, ignoring the excruciating pain gripping his right thigh. He could literally feel the dead nerves howling, but that was secondary to the scene before him.

Wilson was his best friend. His only friend, really. If he was honest.

"James!" he shifted to take his weight to his right hand and left knee. His left hand went to Wilson's neck, feeling for a pulse, his eyes scanning his friend's body. "Pulse is strong. Hang in there, James. Hang in there." House ran a hand through James' hair, making it stick up from his forehead.

Wilson moaned, his head shifting. "House…"

"I'm here. Don't. Don't move. Lay still. I'm going to call for help."

"No…no hospital…" House was concerned Wilson's words were slurred, his eyes unopened. As if he couldn't open them.

"Right. I'll take you back to my place and heal you with my magic touch." House fumbled with his cell phone, hated the belt clip he wore. His fingers trembled and threatened to misdial. He took a deep breath, eyes focused on the wall because he feared he would lose it if he looked at James.

"911. What's your emergency?" a female voice came over the line.

"A man has been stabbed." House identified himself as a doctor, told her the address of the bar, and assured her he didn't need her to stay on the line. He could handle things at the scene until the paramedics arrived.

"Stay with me, James. You stay with me." House demanded, his tone harsh because it was all he had to hide behind. Inside he was breaking down, he could feel it happening. There was so much blood on the floor, too much blood.

He kept his right hand on the floor, to keep his weight off his knee. His left hand held Wilson's hand, his grip firm, reassuring. "I just…want…sleep."

"No. Jimmy. No. You can't sleep. The paramedics are on the way. Hang in there." House looked up to the open door. Amazing how no one had come into the hallway. No one had answered House's screams for help.

Wilson's eyes closed. His body slumped, his grip loosened.

"Fuck. Don't do this to me. James! Damn it!" House let go of Wilson's hand. He inched closer to him, weight fully supported on his knees. He needed both hands now.

He shook Wilson's shoulder. His head rolled easily from side to side.

"Damn it, James! Somebody help! I need some help in here!" House looked down at his friend. James was pale and losing blood way too fast. "Where the hell are the medics?" House grumbled.

There was only one thing he could do. He thumped James' chest with both hands. Still nothing. Another thump earned him a groan. "Come on. Come on, James. Come back to me."

"House…" Wilson rasped. "Hurts…"

"I know. But you're doing good. You are. Just hang in there." House took hold of Wilson's hand again. It felt like a dead fish. House gave a gentle squeeze, but there was nothing from Wilson.

He hated this feeling. Helpless. Desperate. Hopeless.

"Hey, buddy. Everything okay in there?"

House looked up. A man stood a few feet from the door. "My friend's been stabbed. I've called for an ambulance. Go out front, see if they're here." House turned his attention back to James. "You still with me?"

Wilson moaned. He turned his face toward House, his eyes unfocused. House squeezed his hand again. "You're doing good, James. You're doing good."

In the silence, House heard the sirens approaching. "You hear that? The medics are coming. You're gonna be just fine."

House shifted himself back a bit. He wanted to be on his feet when the medics got in. The room was so small, he wasn't sure he'd be able to get out of the way easily. He brought his left foot up, tried to rock his weight onto that leg and pull himself up at the same time. His right leg refused to cooperate, and he was forced to catch himself on his hands.

"Fuck." He dragged himself to the sink, unable to avoid smearing the blood on his pants. He couldn't worry about that now. He had to get up on his feet. He tried again, using the sink for leverage, and failed again. 

"How bad are you hurt, sir?" A fresh faced paramedic charged into the bathroom, headed right for House.

"Not me. Him. I'm not hurt. He's been stabbed." House gestured to Wilson who looked more pale than just a few minutes ago.

"911 said a doctor made the call."

"That's me. Dr Gregory House. Princeton-Plainsboro," House answered, irritated the guy was wasting time yakking when he needed to be tending to Wilson. "Your patient is Dr James Wilson, Head Of Oncology at Princeton-Plainsboro. He's had three beers, I wasn't with him when he was attacked. He's been stabbed, right leg and lower back from what I can tell. Possible concussion."

A second medic found his way to the bathroom, and stumbled over House's cane sticking out from under the door. Any other situation, House would have said something smart. But now, his focus was on James.

He watched silently as the two kids worked, and tried to reevaluate how he could get on his feet. He didn't want to distract the medics from James, but at the same time he knew he wasn't getting up on his own.

He waited until they had Wilson secured on a stretcher. "You think one of you could help me up?"

"You said you weren't hurt." The first medic stated.

He gestured at the cane still lodged under the door. "It's preexisting. Blood clot in my thigh. I need the cane to walk." He hated admitting that out loud. Just saying the word made his nerves twitch.

With one on either side, they eased him to his feet. "The cane? Please?" House prompted. The kid closest to the door wrestled it out and handed it to him.

"House…"

"I'm here, James." House moved to the stretcher. "They're gonna take you now. I'll be right behind you." He looked at the first medic who'd come in. "Take him to Princeton-Plainsboro."

"Princeton General's closer."

"No. He goes to Princeton-Plainsboro." House was surprised he was able to keep up with the stretcher, but he knew it was adrenalin. For the moment, he wasn't feeling his leg, but once he stopped moving… He also knew driving probably wasn't the smartest thing he could do, but he wasn't too thrilled about leaving his car in this neighborhood either. 

"No…no hospit…" Wilson murmured.

A crowd had gathered outside the bar, people wondering what the fuss was all about. House paid them no attention. "Hang in there, James. I'll see you in a few minutes." House patted his leg. Wilson moaned, and his eyes fluttered. He raised a hand off the bed, House reached out to clasp it. "Be strong, James."

He watched them load the stretcher into the back of the ambulance. When the rig pulled away, he was left standing on the sidewalk, weary and blood stained, his weight distributed on his left leg and both hands set on the hilt of his cane. His arms were shaking. He needed to sit down.

He swiftly avoided looking at anyone as he limped to his car. He wasn't sure he'd even make it, except he had to. He couldn't collapse. Not yet. He needed to get to the hospital.

"Son of a bitch!" he hollered when he saw his car. The paint had been keyed, the tires slashed. Just what he needed.

He unlocked the passenger door and eased himself into the seat. He needed a few minutes to gather up his strength to make a few phone calls.


	4. Chapter 4

He sat in the passenger seat of his vandalized car, the door open allowing him to stretch his right leg out, foot on the ground. Pain throbbed in his knees, his thigh, his hips, his lower back. He'd taken the pill bottle out of his pocket, held a Vicodin between thumb and forefinger, just watching his his thumb shook slightly. He'd called his insurance company, he'd called for a tow truck. He'd called Dr Cuddy to inform her of the situation, so she could met Wilson's ambulance at the hospital. He'd called Dr Eric Foreman, one of his own staff, to come pick him up.

He'd talked to the cops, who finally showed up in response to his 911 call. They were milling around, both inside the bar and out in the parking lot, occasionally stopping to talk to potential witnesses. House had told them everything he knew, and had retreated back to his car to be alone. Despite the beer and the extra Vicodin in his system, his leg was giving him fits. He couldn't take another pill, and after a moment dropped the one he held into the ashtray. He sat with his head tilted back, his hands gently massaging his thigh.

"Hey, man. You need any help?" The voice startled him, he hadn't heard anyone approach. The person came from the back of the car, and House had to sit up and turn a little to see him. He was young, mind twenties, maybe. The navy blue uniform gave his identity away. He wore an ID badge that said McGinty.

House took his cane off the driver's seat and tapped it on the ground, hoping he wouldn't have to get out of the car. He wasn't planning to get up until Foreman or the tow showed. "Nah, I'm good."

McGinty nodded. "If you say so. This your friend's wallet? Might not want to leave it laying around." 

He recognized it immediately and snatched it from the cop. Wilson's driver's license and hospital ID were gone, only a few frequent diner cards, the pictures of the dog and Julie that he carried, a picture of his brother's family, a picture of a kid House didn't recognize but looked enough like Wilson to be a relative. Cousin, maybe, he thought idly. He'd never heard Wilson talk about a cousin. He shrugged and opened the mouth of the wallet. No cash, no credit cards.

House leaned back against the seat again, with a sound that was half sigh, half growl. So they stabbed him, robbed him, and vandalized the car they assumed was his. Great. "What the hell happened in there?" he muttered to himself.

"Anything I can do?" McGinty asked, his voice carrying a concerned lilt.

House cracked one eye open. The kid was standing there with his arm propped up on the open door. A little too close, and House had to stifle the urge to poke at him with his cane. "Thanks. I got it covered," he growled.

"Look. I'm sorry about what happened to your friend. They don't like strangers in this place."

The other eye opened. Twin pools of endless blue. "Found that out," House grumbled. Didn't this guy realize he wasn't in the mood to chat? He was tired, he was worried, he was anxious to get to the hospital. He needed to change his clothes, he needed to be with James.

"Yeah. I hope your friend is okay." McGinty nodded, and pushed a hand through his hair, as a man unsure what to say.

"That my tow truck?" House interrupted, pointing with his cane, seeing the truck pull into the lot. "Why don't you prove your worth and flag him over here."

House turned completely sideways in the seat and set his left foot on the ground. Right hand gripping his cane, left hand on the door, he pulled himself up. He glanced back at the pill in the ashtray. The bottle in his pocket felt heavy. He sighed and limped to the back of the car.

House paced after the tow took his car, then settled against the wall of the building to wait for Foreman. Luckily no one tried to talk to him, though he was subject to an ongoing parade o odd looks, a mixture of pity and contempt and whatever else. All he could think about was James, who was surely at the hospital by now, and wondering where House was, why he wasn't there. Unless he'd lost consciousness on the way, but House couldn't let himself think about that.

He had to believe Wilson was going to be fine. Despite the blood and the image of his friend laying on the bathroom floor. Surely it would take more than a couple pokes with a knife to keep James Wilson down.

He was still waiting for Foreman when his cell phone rang. The caller ID displayed Cuddy's name. "Cuddy?" He yelped. "What's going on? Are you with him?"

"They're prepping him for surgery now." Cuddy's voice was a well practiced calm.

House hooked his cane on his left arm, freeing his hand to rub his face. Surgery. At least he was still alive. "Is he awake?"

"They said he lost consciousness five minutes out." House couldn't stifle a sharp intake of breath. "His stats are strong, House. But he's in bad shape. I'm sure I don't have to tell you it's too soon to know anything concrete. Where are you?"

"Foreman hasn't shown yet," House sighed, looked out to the street.

"I'm sure he'll be there soon."

"He better." House muttered, left off the threat to fire him. "Keep me updated."

"I will. But there won't be anything to report until he's out of surgery."

"I know." House sighed. He blinked, noticed a jeep slowing as it approached the police tape. "I think that's Foreman's car. I'll see you soon." He flipped his phone shut and replaced it on his belt clip.

House pushed off the wall and went out to meet Foreman. Foreman parked and swung his door open. "You look like shit." Foreman walked around the front of the car.

"I feel like it too. I'm sorry about the blood." House opened the passenger door, turned himself around to sit sideways. Foreman moved forward like he meant to help, but backed off when House glared at him.

They didn't talk much during the drive. House kept his head back, eyes closed. He tried to concentrate on the steady rhythm of the road, and let that lull his mind into a fog.

"Take me to the Ambulance Bay," House instructed without opening his eyes.

Foreman clicked his tongue. "You know they won't let me near it in a car."

"Yes, they will." House's tone left no room for argument.

The security guard flagged Foreman down. He had no choice but to stop. "Sir, you're not allowed back here."

"Dr Gregory House," House showed his ID. "He's dropping me off."

"Sir, civilian vehicles are not -"

"Do you enjoy your job? Because I'm sure I could arrange for a replacement within the hour. I have been paged to an extremely critical patient, and I assure you, you do not want to be responsible for any further delay."

The guard wore a conflicted look, but finally stepped aside. House took a deep breath. His hands were shaking terribly, there was no point even trying to put his wallet back in his pocket.

"You need any help?" Foreman asked. House had the door open, his body turned sideways. He grit his teeth as he surged upward. Without a word to Foreman, he used his cane to kick the door shut.


	5. Chapter 5

Security caught up with him a few steps inside the Emergency Room doors. "Sir, can I help you?" He was young, looked like he should be sneaking cigarettes in the boy's room, not toting a gun at the entrance to a busy ER.

House flashed his hospital ID. "Dr Gregory House. I'm here to see a patient."

The guard looked him over, eyebrows arched. "You're not hurt?" His eyes flicked to the cane, back up to House's face. He balked at the intensity of House's stare, but didn't back down. Even if he looked like he was about to wet himself. "I can't let you go in there looking like that."

"I was at the scene. It's the patient's blood."

"Sir…" The guard started again. House was in no mood for this kind of resistance. He shifted his weight, intending to raise his cane. He had no reservations about poking this guy in the gut, he just couldn't coordinate his body to do it effectively.

"Is there a problem?" Dr Lisa Cuddy came up behind House. She didn't spare the guard so much as a glance as she reached a hand out to House's arm. "Thanks, Frank. I've got it from here. Dr House, we've been waiting for you. I sent Dr Cameron to bring you some clean clothes. In the meantime, let me update you on the patient's condition." She led him away from the doe-eyed guard.

He looked down at her hand on his arm, but didn't comment. 

"You look like shit," Cuddy observed. His eyes closed, and he stumbled. Her hand tightened on his arm to catch him.. "House…"

House stopped, unaware his right hand gripped his cane perhaps a little too tight. He raised his left hand to scrub at his face. "I'll change as soon as I can. After I see him."

"You can't see him. He's in surgery. You'd contaminate everything."

"Did you send Cameron for clothes?" he asked, tilting his head, with a look that indicated he was only just then processing what she'd said a moment ago to the guard.

"No. But I will. I said that for Frank's benefit.."

He pinched the bridge of his nose. "There's probably a T-shirt up in my office. I don't know about pants."

"You could always wear scrubs. We have plenty of those around here."

House took a few steps toward a row of chairs backed against a wall. He tried not to wince or groan as he sat down, but couldn't stop his hands from going to his thigh, fingers pressing into the skin, massaging the aching muscles.

"What do we know?"

"Only what I've already told you. He's stable, but it's touch and go. We'll get an update when he gets through the surgery. I told them to let me know if anything went wrong. I haven't heard a peep." Cuddy sat in the chair next to him. She studied him a moment. His head was tilted back, eyes closed, mouth drawn in a tight line. "You said you weren't with him when it happened."

House sighed. She was just concerned about his leg. He could read her like an open book. Large print. "He went to the bathroom. I stayed at the table."

"If it's still bothering you when Wilson gets settled, I want to have a look at it."

"It's fine," House insisted. He attempted to make his point by lurching to his feet and making off down the hallway, but he didn't quite make it. His leg screamed at him and he went back down into the chair with a sharp cry.

Cuddy nodded. "Point taken."

"I went down hard on my knees when I saw him. Doesn't take much to strain the leg. It's fine." He moved his hands away from his leg, trying to illustrate his point.

"If you say so," Cuddy gave him a look to say she didn't believe him.

House clawed at his face, leaving red streaks. "Just find me some clothes."

"You should go upstairs and take a shower. The heat will help."

"Maybe later." His hands dropped to his thigh, palms pressed against the strained muscle, trying to find relief in a different arc of pressure.

Cuddy shook her head. "No. House. Now. Once he gets out of surgery, you're going to be right there with him. You won't leave him to take a shower. Do it now. Use the time you have."

House gnawed on his bottom lip as Cuddy's words rolled around in his head. She seemed to know more than she was saying about Wilson. House sighed. He was too tired to argue with her, and she had a point. A good point, much as he hated to admit she was right. "Fine. You made your point, Mommy." He would grill her after his shower. He had to believe she would tell him if it was anything serious. Could have been anything, really. Could have been about a patient and not about Wilson at all.

He moved carefully to the edge of the seat, taking it slower this time. Both hands on his cane. He took a deep breath.

"Do you need me to help you?"

He held her gaze for a moment, then sucked in a breath and looked down. Eyes closed for extra concentration, he gave himself a silent count. One. Two. Three. He bit into his bottom lip as his right leg balked against the pressure of his weight. The cane helped him steady himself. "Where is he?"

"OR 4."

House nodded. He felt like his feet were incased in cement, both legs aching, screaming with every step. He was glad Cuddy didn't move to walk with him, he wasn't in the mood for company.

He avoided his office completely, and went straight to the supply closet for a set of scrubs. He chose light blue, and headed to the showers. He knew the heat would help his legs, but he wouldn't be in there long enough to make a real difference.

He took far too long getting out of his soiled clothes, so that by the time he actually got in the shower, he was feeling anxious and antsy. He needed to be with Wilson, not worrying about how clean he was behind the ears. 

Foreman was sitting with Cuddy in the waiting room. Neither commented on the scrubs, but he saw how they looked him over. Foreman was the first to look away.

"Tell me," he demanded, eyes boring into Cuddy.

Cuddy stood. "There's swelling around his spinal chord. It's too early to tell. But Dr Hicks is concerned."

The entire waiting room fell away into blackness. Only Cuddy remained in his line of vision. He swayed, and his grip on the cane was the only thing that kept him upright. He dug his fingernails into his palms to keep himself centered.

He blinked, brought the room around him back into focus. A woman was walking toward him, controlled panic on her face. His tongue skated across his bottom lip. "Stacy. Glad you're here. I need a favor." He nodded. "I found Wilson's wallet at the scene. All his credit cards are missing. I could assume Julie took them, but since Wilson was at work when she left I doubt that's likely. I need you to check his office, possibly go to his house, and find the statements. I'll need his mortgage statement and bank records too, so you'll have to trek to his house anyway. Here's the key." He dug in his pocket, fishing around his wallet.

Stacy Warner reached for it, brushing her hand against his. He shifted his weight and offered his cell phone to her. She hesitated, her eyes searching his face.

"Here's my cell. I want you to call the little Missus and inform her what's happened. She's under BITCH in the address book. She left him today, so don't give her too many details. Just let her know he's been hurt, and the credit cards were stolen, so I'm taking the initiative to close down the accounts. Tell the creditors the hospital will fax them whatever information they need regarding Dr Wilson's condition."

"House, you should sit down," Cuddy interrupted. She reached out to touch his arm, he jerked away from her instinctively.

"I don't want to sit down," House looked over his shoulder at her.

"Greg." One word. His name. The sound of her voice. His composure cracked. His face fell. His arm shook against the cane. Hands on his arms, guiding him to the nearest chair. Foreman jumping out of the way.

She knelt in front of him, hands on his thighs. He whimpered pitifully and curled himself around her. Her arms snaked up and around his waist, he pressed his face to the top of her head.

"Shhh," Stacy cooed, one hand moving up to caress his back.

/\\/\\/\\

"What? Stacy, no." Wilson took both her hands in his, dark eyes locked on hers. "You can't…he's upset. He's confused. He's scared, and he needs you. He doesn't know…"

"He knows exactly what he's saying, James." Stacy squeezed his hands. "The way he sees it, I did this to him. I'm the enemy now. I did this to him."

"You saved his life!" Wilson argued, voice cracking as helplessness mounted.

"And now I have to let go and let him live it." She pulled one hand away from his grasp and lay her palm against his cheek. "I love him, James, and maybe one day he'll understand what I've done. For now, I'm trusting you to take care of him. He'll let you, if you're careful. If you don't force it. Let it happen on his terms."

"You can't…Stacy, please. He needs you."

Stacy shook her head. "He can't even look at me, James. I did this to him. This is exactly what he didn't want. I'm sorry. Tell him that. Tell him I'm sorry, tell him I love him." Her voice cracked then, and the tears spilled down her cheeks.

He reached up to thumb them away. "Don't go, Stacy. Please."

"Goodbye, James." She turned away, and slowly put one foot in front of the other.


	6. Chapter 6

He paced the length of the waiting room, each step heavy on the left side and punctuated by a hiss of pain. Stacy and Cuddy sat together, directly opposite the door, quietly holding hands. Both of them kept a close eye, and ear, on Greg, bodies tense and ready to surge up if he lost his balance.

"I wish he'd sit down," Cuddy said to Stacy, voice low.

House paused and stabbed the floor harshly with his cane. "I don't want to sit down!" he growled, eyes intense and focused on Cuddy, looking at her as if no one else existed.

"You should get off that leg," Cuddy suggested, and touched the seat next to her.

"I. Am. Not. Sitting. Down." House insisted, speaking through clenched teeth. Cuddy sighed, exasperated, and House mocked her with an exaggerated huff. He stabbed the floor once more, then resumed pacing and muttering incoherently to himself.

Cuddy pushed a hand through her hair and looked at Stacy.

Stacy nodded and gave Cuddy's hand a squeeze as she stood. "Greg."

"I'm not sitting down." He kept his back to her.

"I know." She put her hand out to him. He turned, slowly, and faced her. She shifted a step closer, her arms sliding around his waist. His eyes closed, and he sucked his breath in. She set her feet apart to offer him support from her body. His right hand maintained a death grip on his cane, the left snaked up and into her hair.

Time seemed to stop in that moment, suspended around them, as he held her, until Cuddy touched his arm. He blinked and rocked back on his heels, Stacy took a step away from him. Cuddy's fingers curled around his arm.

"Dr Hicks," she greeted the surgeon approaching them.

"Dr Cuddy," he nodded. "Mrs Warner, Dr House." Alvin Hicks pulled the sanitary cap off his head and adjusted his glasses.

"How is he?" House demanded. Stacy took hold of his left hand.

Hicks scrubbed a hand over his face. "He's holding his own."

House tilted his head. Eyes searching, studying, reading. "What aren't you telling me, Alvin?" House wasn't one to use first names, unless he used it to make a point.

Hicks took a deep breath, and looked like he wanted to bolt. "There's swelling, around his spinal-"

"No!" He hollered. Stacy's hand tightened in his, but he jerked away. His cane clattered to the floor. "No no no no no."

"Greg," Stacy started at the same time Cuddy said "House…"

Hicks was still talking, trying to explain that he thought it might be temporary and he didn't want anyone to worry until they knew for sure.

House's eyes darkened, his mouth tightened. "He is not going to lose his legs." His blue eyed stare fixed on Hicks. "Don't you dare…Don't you dare say that."

Hicks took a step back, closer to Cuddy. "We don't know, Dr House. It's too early." He didn't know House personally, only as an entity. The jerk up in Diagnostics who breaks all the rules and does whatever he wants, and no one ever says anything about it. He knew too, that Dr Cuddy had a soft spot for Dr House, because of the misdiagnosis on his leg, and the delay in treatment that cost him dearly. Maybe that was why she let him slide. Guilt had a way of messing with a person's judgment.

"Don't talk to me!" House sneered and growled at Hicks. His eyes had a wild look, like an animal in a cage. Like he might attack at any minute, but the bars of the cage, or the lack of his cane, prevented him from lurching forward.

"Dr House," Cuddy put a hand on his arm, calm in the face of his outburst. "Please sit down."

"I don't want to sit down!" House snapped.

Cuddy nodded. "Fine. How long before you fall down?" She put a hand up to his cheek. He flinched. "James needs you to be strong now, Greg. You can't be there for him if you can't stand on your own."

House set his jaw, looking very much like a spoiled child finally being told he was not going to get his own way. He held Cuddy's gaze for a moment before his eyes closed and he shuddered. "I need my cane."

"Shouldn't have thrown it," Stacy muttered and picked up the walking stick. House's hand brushed against hers as he took it from her.

"Can I see him now?"

Hicks glanced at Cuddy, then back to House with a nod. No way he was going to tell this man no.

House faltered on the first step, struggled to find his balance. "What about his leg?"

"Clean wound. We stitched it up, good as new. I don't expect any complications once it heals."

House nodded. "And his hand?"

Hicks looked at him for a moment. He seemed so calm now. Focused. Determined. So unlike he'd been a moment earlier. "Looks like he got in a few decent punches, unfortunately not enough to do any real damage."

"No, he was upset before we left. He did that at home, punching the wall."

Dr Hicks stopped walking. House went a step forward, but stopped and pivoted back around to face him. "What's wrong?"

"His fingers were broken. Are broken. From the angle of the break, it appears they were bent backward until they snapped."

House sucked his breath in sharply. "Right or left?" He could see Wilson, a body laid out on a bed, through the glass walls of the room.

"Right." Hicks put his hand out to the door. "Take it easy, Greg." House nodded, and Hicks pushed the door open. "I'll be right out here if you need anything."

A nurse stepped up beside him, a hand on his arm. "Dr House, do you need anything?"

He didn't spare her a glance, his eyes focused on the figure of the man in the bed. "Leave."

"If you…"

"Go now!" he barked impatiently, and she slipped away.

House moved into the room, suddenly aware of how public it was. He quickly turned the blinds, shutting out the world beyond the glass walls. He ran a hand through his hair as he reached the side of Wilson's bed.

"This isn't right, Jimmy. This is all wrong," he murmured, his left hand reaching up to feather his fingers through Wilson's hair. "Why don't you just wake up and tell me this is all just a big mistake. A joke gone too far. Anything, Jimmy. I'd take anything."

House hung his cane on the end of the bed, and pulled the sheets free of the corners. He flipped the covers back, exposing James' feet. Carefully balanced with the bulk of his weight on his left side, House took hold of an ankle, lifted the foot off the bed. Using his knuckles, he checked for any involuntary reflex, but there was none. He repeated with the other foot before emitting a string of curses.

He jerked the sheets back into place, then dropped into the nearest chair. It had arm rests, which gave him leverage for surging back to his feet. Adrenalin pushed him forward, and he braced his hands on the bed, leaning close to Wilson's ear.

"You better be fighting in there, James. 'Cause you're not going to do this to me. You do not want to be a cripple, take my word for it." House stroked the hair from James' forehead. "You're the caretaker, you hate being on the other side, so you need to wake up and get back to work. Do you hear me, Jimmy?"

A spasm passed through his leg, forcing him back into the chair to ride it out. He held his breath, both hands wrapped around his thigh as the pain washed over him in crests and waves, and just when he thought he couldn't take it anymore, the pain was going to win, he was going under, the intensity passed and he could breathe again. Slow, ragged breaths, but the pain was receding, his mind numb.

He knew he wasn't due for another dose yet, but he fished his Vicodin out of his pocket and dry swallowed a pill before sinking back into the chair.


	7. Chapter 7

The parade of nurses in and out of Wilson's room tapered off after midnight. By then, House had his chair pulled up to the window, feet propped up on the sill, and his body turned somewhat so he could keep an eye on the patient.

"Dr House."

He jerked awake, his head snapping up and pain rocketing through his leg. He tugged on his jeans, and winced as his feet hit the floor. "Haven't you gone home yet?"

"You know how it is." Cuddy waved her hand dismissively. "His stats look good."

House scrubbed a hand over his face. The other gripped his thigh. Subtly. "I'm not leaving."

"Sitting up like that, all night…"

"Isn't good for my leg. I know." Blue eyes flickered to the bed. He blinked to clear his eyes, to see the output of the heart and pulse monitor. "Just like sitting up with me all night wasn't good for his marriage six years ago. I'm not leaving."

Cuddy sighed. He knew she wouldn't argue that. She was as sensitive about his infarction as he was, because she'd been the one to pick up the slack. She'd been the one to cut into his leg, to try and clean up a mess neither of them made.

"House…" She started, but stopped when he drew his hand over his face, followed through to his pocket and his bottle of Vicodin. "At least let me get you a cot…"

"Doesn't matter. Still not much support. I'm fine. I just need to stay here." He dry swallowed a pill.

Her expression softened. He looked away. Her hand on his shoulder drew his focus back to her. "Hey. He's going to be okay."

"Yeah." House nodded and sighed and looked up at her. "I know. Go on. Get out of here."

"I'll be back first thing in the morning." He caught her hand as it slid away from his shoulder, and gave a gentle squeeze.

Cuddy left, and after a quick but thorough look at Wilson's stats, House inched his chair closer to the bed. He propped his feet up on the mattress, body angled out of the way of the nurses who would be in to check the patient's vitals.

As he settled into a restless sleep, his mind attempted to reconstruct the bathroom scene. Wilson walking in –innocently. There were three of them. A meeting, a drug deal, something no one was supposed to see. One of them panicked, stabbed him, and they all ran.

Except they weren't running. They walked out casually. Blood on their shirts. At least one of their shirts. And they broke his fingers. Why did they break his hand?

He sat up, struggling for breath. Sweating. Leg throbbing in time with his heart thumping in his chest. He squeezed his eyes shut, rocked through the spasms of pain.

"Dr House?" As the crushing waves subsided, he looked up at the nurse, Bridget. He hadn't realised she was there, but thought now he must have woken when she came in the room. "Are you all right?" She asked, her voice gentle and soothing.

"Fine," he snapped. He decided against further comment, since she was changing the IV bag attached to Wilson's arm. "What time is it?" He tugged on his right pant leg to move his foot to the floor, and again bit back a hiss of pain.

She held her arm up to get a good look at her watch. "Nearly six thirty. Do you want a breakfast tray, Dr House?"

"No." He leaned forward, lay his hand against Wilson's cheek. There was no reaction, and even though he didn't expect a reaction, it still stung. "How's he doing?"

"As well as we can expect, Dr House. Dr Hicks will be in about nine to check on him. So you need anything? Are you sure you don't want a tray? It's no problem. Dr Cuddy said you should get one."

"Dr Cuddy has a big mouth." House sighed and slid Wilson's left hand between both his. The knuckles were bruised, where he punched the wall at home. He remembered standing at the bottom of the stairs. Dreading the climb, but willing to push himself because he thought James might have hurt himself. That seemed so long ago. "I'm really fine."

Bridget nodded. "All right." Yeah. Like she was going to argue with Dr House. She'd tried. She'd done her part like Dr Cuddy asked. "Maggie will be on in half an hour."

"I'll be here."

"I'm sure you will," she called over her shoulder as she slipped out of the room, and House hoped Wilson had never flirted with her. She didn't seem like his type, but then House wasn't really sure that mattered.

He turned the television on just before 8:00. One of the early morning news and talk shows, showing footage of the Great San Francisco Quake. He used it as a distraction, numbing his mind, so he wouldn't think about the pain in his leg. He wasn't due for another pill for a couple hours, and resisted taking one. Maybe after he got up, he'd reward himself. Right. So much for distraction.

He gave a mental count, muttering i one, two, three /i under his breath. Hands braced on the arms of his chair, he mashed his lips together and heaved himself up. His leg jolted and spasmed, and threatened to buckle and send him either sprawling forward on the floor or right back down into the chair. He held steady, and stayed on his feet.

He swayed a bit more than he would have liked as he groped for his cane. Steps slow and painful, carefully paced and placed, he maneuvered to the bathroom. When he came out, Cuddy was there looking over Wilson's chart.

Two cups of coffee stood side by side on the bed tray. "You sleep at all?" She returned the clipboard to its hook by the door.

He gave her a once over. "Looks like you didn't."

"In my office," she waved a hand dismissively at the coffee. "Would have lost more than an hour of rest with the driving."

"Yeah." He nodded and reached for one of the cups of coffee, and hoped she didn't notice his hand was shaking. "Thanks." He muttered and held the Styrofoam cup under his chin for a moment before taking a sip.

Cuddy inched closer to the bed and took Wilson's left hand in hers. "I'm giving your team a few days off," she looked across to House. "I assume you plan to stay with him."

"Yeah." He sipped at the coffee.

Cuddy nodded. She leaned over and whispered something in Wilson's ear, then backed off. "Take it easy, House." She put a hand on his arm, a gentle squeeze. "And call me, page me, if you need anything."

He nodded, and shifted his focus to Wilson. Cuddy nodded and left the room.

He attempted a few stretching exercises in the small space at the foot of the bed. His leg seemed to tighten, rather than loosen, and he surrendered to the call of more Vicodin after three repetitions.

He estimated it was close to nine. Hicks would be in any minute. He desperately wanted to sit down, but he thought he should stay on his feet. At least until Hicks came and left. He didn't want to struggle to get up in front of the surgeon.

"Dr House." House's eyes flashed to the door as Dr Hicks walked in. "How's our patient this morning?"

"Holding steady." House pulled his hand across his face.

"Excellent." Hicks reviewed the chart, the nurse's notes, the current statistics on the monitors. "I have to tell you, Greg. He's doing better than I expected."

"He's going to be fine." House insisted, and looked over at Wilson.

Hicks put a hand on House's shoulder, but before he could say anything, the day nurse, Maggie came in. She hovered at the door, looking very much like she had something to say, but was hesitant to interrupt. Hicks was the one to acknowledge her.

"There is a police officer here to speak to Dr House," Maggie explained. Turning to House, she nodded. "Officer McGinty. He says he spoke to you last night at the scene."

House rubbed his left hand across his face. "Yeah. Tell him I'll be right out." Because he knew it was going to take him a minute to cross the room.

"Go on, I'll stay with Dr Wilson," Hicks said. He may not have really known House before this, but he could see the man's dedication to Dr Wilson quite plainly.

House bit his lower lip to stifle grunts as he walked. He felt sweat bead on his forehead, and reached up to wipe it away before easing into the hallway. "Officer McGinty."

"Dr House," McGinty answered and put his hand out to shake, shifted to take House's left hand since his right was wrapped around his cane and wasn't about to let loose. McGinty inclined his head toward Wilson's door. "How's he doing?"

"Holding his own. I hope you're here to tell me you got the men who did this to him."

"Not yet. We've got a couple leads, but no one wants to talk."

House sighed, rubbed his hand over his face. He idly wondered if he could rub his chin smooth, if he repeated the gesture enough times. "Typical. It's the uniform. Scares the guilty. What can I do for you then?"

"We found this in the bathroom at the bar. Thought it probably belongs to the doctor." McGinty held out a plastic bag. House squinted to see what it was. McGinty handed him the bag. He opened it, removed a small gold disc, caressing it with his thumb. One side bore the American Medical Association emblem, the other carried a personalized message. 'James, Congratulations. You're a real doctor now. Greg.'

He closed his eyes. Relived the moment he'd given it to James. He'd carried it in his pocket for days, waiting for Wilson to tell him he'd passed his Boards. He still remembered the look on Wilson's face. Touched. Thrilled, that House would do something like that. Something so personal and intimate.

"Yeah. It's…" He swallowed back the lump in his throat. "It's his. Thanks for bringing it over."

"No problem. We'll be in touch." McGinty nodded and stepped back. House leaned against the wall for a moment before pivoting carefully on his left foot to head back in to Wilson's room.

"Anything?" Hicks asked him as he tucked the blankets around Wilson's legs.

House's thumb pressed against the gold disc in his hand. "No. Nothing. A couple leads, maybe, but no one's talking."

"They'll get whoever did this to him, House." Hicks touched his arm. "I'll be around today, if you need me. Take it easy, Greg."

"Yeah." House hung his cane on the end of the bed and hopped another couple steps to the side of the bed, where he could take Wilson's hand in his and ease the gold disc into his palm. He curled Wilson's fingers around the charm, and as he sat, he held Wilson's fisted hand up to rub the battered knuckles against his forehead.


	8. Chapter 8

She knew he knew she was there because his breathing hitched when she leaned against the door frame. He didn't acknowledge her in any other way, and she respected him enough not to interrupt him.

He stood at the side of James' bed, massaging his leg. His touch was gentle, she could see that where she stood. Maternal, despite the ghost of pain that shadowed his every move.

Her eyes closed, and memory took her back in time, approximately six years. Same floor, different room, and the roles were reversed. Greg lay flat on his back in the bed with James keeping vigil over him, holding a cool cloth to his head despite Greg's feeble attempts to push him away.

Exhaustion had finally won out, and Greg's arms fell awkwardly to his sides. She'd watched as James repositioned his arms, and tucked the blankets around him. "Believe it or not," he said without even looking at Stacy, "he's doing really well."

She forced a brave smile and stepped in to the room, safe now that Greg was sleeping and wouldn't accuse her of interrupting a private moment, or look at her with anger and pain and betrayal in his pain-dark eyes. "Go home, James. Go home to your wife."

"My wife," James repeated, as if he were mulling over the secrets to the universe. He dropped with a weary sigh into the chair next to Greg's bed. "My wife has asked me not to come home."

Stacy knelt in front of him, her hands on his knees. "Oh, James. I'm so sorry."

James shook his head. "It's been building for a while. This," he gestured broadly at Greg, "is just the excuse she's been looking for."

Her eyes flashed to Greg. She remembered how he'd screamed at her, once he'd realised what she'd done. How he'd used all his strength to scream and push her away. "It still hurts," she murmured. She'd known it was coming, had expected it, and still it had burned her deeply.

He pulled a deep breath and covered her hand with his. Dark eyes sought confirmation in dark eyes. A nod. Silent comfort and understanding. A promise to hold each other up.

His tongue slipped past his lips.

Beside them, Greg stirred. Groaned. Stacy got to her feet, moved instinctively toward the door. "They selling tickets at the nurse's station?" he slurred, voice think with sleep and pain and drugs.

Her back stiffened, and she combed a hand through her hair. She blinked, careening back to the present. To Greg looking over his shoulder at her, his hands braced on the rails of James' bed.

She stepped back, then forward, and set the clothes she'd brought for him on the wardrobe. His eyes flashed, and it occurred to her he might need help changing. His leg was hurting more than he wanted anyone to know. But she knew him well enough to know he wouldn't appreciate the offer. Or the observation.

"I, uh, I brought your Game Boy." It sat on top of the clothes.

He pried his left hand off the bed rail to rub his face. "You call Julie?"

"Left her two voice mails so far. I've taken care of the credit cards and notified the bank."

He nodded, and held her gaze for a long, tense moment, before easing into the chair behind him. He hissed and grunted and swiftly avoided looking her in the eye again until he was settled.

"How bad is it?" She knelt in front of him, just as she had knelt in front of James so long ago. Hand on his knee, she could feel the heat radiating off his thigh.

"It's bad," he admitted, eyes closed, mouth drawn.

She nodded, a parade of images overwhelming her for a moment. She wanted to cry, but bit back the flow of emotions. She took a deep, calming breath. "Do you need-"

"No.:" he interrupted, before she could finish the thought. "I'm fine."

i "The pain alone is going to kill you." /i She heard herself say. i "I know, I know," /i came his answer, and still he held strong. Refused to give in. Refused to admit defeat.

"You're not fine, Greg."

He put a hand to her cheek. "Do you know," he smiled sadly, "you're the only one who calls me Greg? No one else. Not even him."

"You don't call him James."

"True." He slouched a bit, trying to rest his head at the back of the chair. Five seconds, maybe ten, and he heaved himself back up. He couldn't suppress a wince or a small whimper, but once he settled, he set his gaze, almost daring her to say something.

She wouldn't of course. She thought about it, and he no doubt saw the shadow of that thought in her eyes. But they both knew this wasn't the time, or the place. James was unconscious, and a high powered combination of drugs assured he would stay that way for a while, but he was right there. And Stacy wasn't foolish enough to upset Greg when his emotions were already teetering close to madness.

She rocked back on her heels, and inched her hands up his thigh to gently massage the damaged muscle. He sucked in a breath, as if he meant to let her do it, but pushed her hands away as he exhaled. "Don't…" he warned.

"You're in pain, Greg. I jus-"

"Manhandling me isn't going to help."

"What will?"

Blue eyes flashed. "More Vicodin. Whiskey. Don't know. Morphine. Him awake. Last night never happened."

She stood and glanced at James. She gently touched his shoulder, lay her palm against his cheek. "He's a fighter." She could have been talking to James, or referring to him. Maybe both.

"I know," House closed his eyes, both hands set against his thigh. "I know."

Stacy turned back to Greg and kissed his cheek. "I should get back to work. I'll come by later. Do you want me to bring you anything?"

He inclined his head toward the wardrobe, and caught her hand as she stepped back. "Thank you, Stace."

"And Greg? Don't hesitate to call me. If you need anything."

He attempted to lift his legs up to rest on Wilson's bed as soon as Stacy was gone. Pain jolted his right leg and into his back, convincing him that wasn't such a good idea. He slouched a little, more carefully than he'd done before, and spread his legs wide on the floor in front of him.

He turned the television on, but couldn't focus enough to watch. He stared at the clothes Stacy brought and the game console on top. He wasn't about to try t get up and get it, and figured it wouldn't hold his attention anyway.

Eventually his eyes drifted shut, though disjointed dreams kept him from sleeping too deeply. He was running through a field of roses, thorns tearing at his legs, trying to get to James, when he surged up, gasping for breath. He grunted as he fell back into the chair, pain taking his breath.

"Oh Dr House, I'm sorry. I saw you were sleeping and I tried not to disturb you." She was changing the IV drip attached to Wilson's arm.

He drew his hand across his face. "It's fine, Melanie. I wasn't sleeping."

"It's Maggie, Dr House," she corrected him cheerfully.

"Maggie, right." He flashed a half-hearted smile. She worked in silence then, changing the bag, adjusting he monitors. He attempted t get to his feet, but didn't quite make it and ended up sitting on the edge of the chair, torn between wanting to laugh and scream and cry.

"Dr House?" He blinked Maggie in t focus, on the other side of the bed. "What is this?" She held the AMA disc he'd put in Wilson's hand.

He cleared his throat. "The cop brought it over. They found it in the restroom at the bar. I…gave it to him, when he passed his boards."

She smiled and nodded and slipped it back into Wilson's hand. "It's very sweet, Dr House."

He opened his mouth to say something, but the door slid open and his attention shifted. Foreman ambled his way into the room, with House's bag on his shoulder and a stack of books in hand. Allison Cameron followed with a bouquet of flowers.

"Get that out of here," he demanded, bypassing Foreman to glare at Cameron.

"They're from-"

"I don't care who they're from, Dr Cameron. He's not dead. Get them out of here."

Maggie stepped forward. "I'll take care of it, Dr House. Do you mind if-"

"I don't care what you do with them."

Maggie took the basked from Cameron and headed out. Cameron moved to help Foreman set the books down without dropping them.

"Where's Dr Chase?" House asked with a roll of his eyes. "I would have thought the three of you would be presenting a united front."

"He's working your clinic hours," Cameron offered. She looked like she wanted to approach him, but was afraid to.

"Well, good." House sighed. Any other time he would have made a joke. "You two can go now, too."

Cameron's posture stiffened, and she seemed to consider saying something, but Foreman shook his head and ushered her toward the door. House caught his eye and nodded. Once they were gone, House took a deep breath and braced his hands on the arms of the chair. His knee locked as he pushed himself up, and refused to yield either way. He couldn't push up, he couldn't fall back. He was effectively suspended there and could only try to breathe through the waves of pain.

"House," James' voice filled his head. He was downstairs in the therapy gym, hands gripping the parallel bars so tightly that his whole body shook with the strain. "House," James said again. "Focus. Remember your breathing. You can do this."

He grunted and sneered and forced his right leg to move. The walls of resistance crumbled and rebuilt within seconds. Pain so intense he couldn't breathe caused his vision to go dark. He felt himself falling, landing on his ass in the chair beside James' bed.

A series of focused breathing calmed him down enough to try again. This time he envisioned it first. Literally saw himself rising from the chair. He moved to the edge of the seat and gripped the bedrail to use as leverage.

Once on his feet, he stood, stunned and again unable to move. "Maggie!"

She burst into the room. "What is it, Dr House?"

He stared at her, his gaze bright and intense. Full of pain and humiliation and defeat. Exhausted and weary. And yet unwavering. "I need crutches."

"Of course, Dr House." Maggie held steady under the scrutiny of his stare. "Can I help you before I go?"

His eyes flickered to the bathroom. "No. I'll manage."

"I'll only be a few minutes, Dr House." She nodded and slipped out of the room.

His head dropped forward and he blinked back the hot sting of tears.


End file.
